


Session One

by joypendants



Category: Maggot Boy
Genre: THIS WAS A COMMISSION IW ROTE, forgot to post it here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-26 16:41:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6247633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joypendants/pseuds/joypendants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Marianne psychoanalyzes a scared Davey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Session One

**Author's Note:**

> This was a commission I wrote for my friend, Adrian! I meant to post it here a while ago, but I forgot. Anyway, without further ado, here's my first piece of Maggot Boy fanfiction!

**Session one, post operation.**

“Now, dear, I know that you’re afraid––”

“Like _hell_ I am!”

“––but there’s no need to shout.”

The undead boy sat across from her, arms folded over his chest and damp hair sticking to his forehead. (She had been gracious enough to let him clean himself up before insisting that he sit with her; while she was not squeamish, she did not want blood getting on her good furniture.) Despite the obvious anger in his voice, Marianne could tell that he was afraid. It was clear in the way that his gaze did not linger on her, instead flickering about the room, greyed eyes uncertain and his hands shaking ever so slightly. 

“It _is_ alright to be afraid, Jeremiah.” 

“ _Davey._ ” His tone was terse, teeth gritted as he sucked in a slow breath. (That was completely unnecessary, she noted; perhaps a force of habit?) “My name is _Davey_.” It was quite intriguing, how he managed to muster together this much anger. He had been a shellshocked boy twenty minutes prior, when she had sent him off to the showers.

“Dear, you really _aren’t_ angry. You’re afraid,” Marianne coaxed, a delicate hand reaching forward to rest on his forearm. He jerked away at her touch, eyes widening ever so slightly. “And that’s fine! It’s _completely_ understandable.”

“Don’t touch me––  _God_ , you’re disgusting. Crazy bitch!”

“There’s no need for that language, Jeremiah.”

“It’s _Davey._ ”

She chose to ignore his words, instead scratching something down on her notepad. “So, Jeremiah, tell me–– What was your life like before you died?”

“Go to _hell!”_

 

**Session three, post operation.**

He was visibly more shaken this time. Of course he was. Marianne had expected this––the first time, he had been so very full of false bravado. The second, aforementioned bravado had been less certain, tinged with a more prominent version of the fear he, even now, was working so very hard to hide. 

“So, dear––”

“Don’t fuckin’ _call me that_.” 

A note was jotted down on the pad of paper that was balanced ever so carefully on her knee. “Language, Jeremiah.” Her patient tone was coaxing, as if she were speaking a child. (Technically, she was, she supposed––this child simply happened to be _dead_.) 

“…Whatever.” Arms were folded across his chest, his jaw working as he pointedly avoided eye-contact.

Interesting. He hadn’t corrected her this time. Every other time, he had insisted that she call him by his nickname. Another note was added to her list, piercing blue eyes examining her ‘patient’. “So, dear, how are you doing?” she asked, delicate brow arching. 

“How th’fuck do you _think_ I’m doing?” he snapped, voice shaking ever so slightly. “I’m doin’ just _fine and dandy_.” His tone was biting, laced with sarcasm and barely concealed fright. A calculating expression graced Marianne’s features as she examined him. He clearly didn’t feel safe around her. She would have to fix that.

There was a beat before Marianne responded, blue eyes fixated on Jeremiah’s greyed. (He had finally made eye-contact with her; he had been avoiding look at her the entire session.) “If you don’t tell me what’s wrong, I won’t be able to help you,” Marianne finally said, voice soft and touched with something akin to worry. “You need to _work_ with me, Jeremiah.”

 

**Session four, post operation.**

“How are you doing today, sweetheart?” 

No response came, the undead boy instead staring at his own feet. He looked rather shellshocked, she noted; that was odd. Normally he would have bounced back by now. The showers normally made him feel better.

“Jeremiah, dear, it’s _alright_ to talk to me.”

“…Don’t want to.” His voice was somewhat raw, which made sense. He _had_ been crying about twenty minutes ago. It was _fascinating,_ how he worked: He was dead, and yet he still seemed to be so very human.

Pausing mid-scribble, Marianne arched an eyebrow, glancing up from her notes to look at him. “Why not?” Again, no response. “… Alright, then. How about we go back to something we talked about a few sessions ago? I had asked you what your life was like before you died. Do you remember that?” Her tone was gentle, blonde head tilted to the side. (He might have initially thought that she was faking this kindness, but it was far more genuine than he might be willing to believe.)

“…Yeah.” 

“You didn’t answer me then. Are you ready to talk about it now?” 

“I––…Yeah.” His voice was soft (quite the change from his normally loud volume). Fingers toyed with the hem of his shirt, picking at stray threads as water trickled his forehead, pooling at the tip of his nose and dripping onto the floor below. 

“Good! I’m glad we’re making progress.” A small smile curved glossed lips, a delicate hand reaching up to brush stray hair away from blue eyes. “So, what was your family like?” 

She heard a breath catch in his throat, the sound akin to that of a sob. This captured her interest; up until now, he had been so very set on maintaining his angry façade––she was finally getting through that mask and reaching what was really underneath. 

“Go on, Jeremiah; it’s all right. You’re safe h––” 

Dry laughter cut her off, the sound harsh and barking. “Safe? _Safe?!_ Like hell I am! You–– You fuckin’…you _cut me open_ and _rearranged my insides_ , and––” A scarred hand reached up to angrily wipe away tears. “F-fucking… _Safe_ my ass.”

“…Dear, you _know_ why I did that. We need to know more about how you wo––”

“That’s not a _damn excuse!”_

Marianne rose to her feet, clicking her pen as she did so. “I think that’s enough for today, sweetheart. We’ll talk more when you have calmed down.” 

 

**Session six, post operation.**

“…I don’t want to talk to you.” He wouldn’t even face her now, instead moving his chair around so that he was staring at the wall. 

“That’s fine. We’ll just sit here until you are ready to do so.”

“I want to be _alone_.”

“I’m afraid we can’t have that.” 

“Leave me the _fuck alone!”_

He had been getting steadily worse, she had noted. He wouldn’t look at her, wouldn’t stand near her, wouldn’t let her touch him. He seemed to think that she was doing this of her own volition, despite what she told him. The undead boy––Davey, Jeremiah, Jeremiah David Jones––was unstable, though she did not think him to be dangerous. He was just _afraid_ , though she could not really understand why. It wasn’t as if he could _feel_ anything. 

“You need to talk to me, dear.” 

“I don’t _need_ t’do anything.” Despite his brave words and the anger that he put on, she could see his shoulders shaking. He was crying again––he’d been doing that more and more lately. “Jus’…jus’ leave me alone. _Please_.” 

He was different now, somehow. He was quieter, more prone to sitting still than he had been before. He was skittish, afraid…it was _fascinating_. His reactions, from a clinical standpoint, where very intriguing––he maintained so much _humanity_ , despite what he was. 

She needed to know more about what made him tick.

**_Fin._ **


End file.
